


i see what's mine and take it (finders keepers, losers weepers)

by brothebro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Fade to black sex, Free Will and Agency, Magic, Morally Grey Characters, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Rituals, Scars, Screw Destiny, Soul bonds and the logistics thereof, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg-centric, glamours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: A sharp pain blooms in Yennefer’s throat, like a thousand pins piercing the tender flesh, tearing it apart. It’s not an uncommon thing to happen, far from it in fact, and she silently incants a healing spell that calms the irritated swollen skin.This thrice-damned soulmate of hers has found themself in trouble. Again. Gods know how many scars she’s accumulated because of this bond she never asked for. She doesn’t dare remove her glamour anymore because the marks on her skin run deep; jagged lines crisscrossing and intersecting, red angry burn marks blooming like flowers on her light brown skin.And what’s the point really, in having a soulmate if it’s not guaranteed that you’ll be important to that person, unconditionally. What’s the point when at best you’ll spend your whole life feeling the pain of another, and at worst you’ll get to meet them only to be trapped in a relationship that does more harm than good to you?Or: how Yennefer met her soulmate(s)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 165
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #05





	i see what's mine and take it (finders keepers, losers weepers)

Shit.

A sharp pain blooms in Yennefer’s throat, like a thousand pins piercing the tender flesh, tearing it apart. It’s not an uncommon thing to happen, far from it in fact, and she silently incants a healing spell that calms the irritated, swollen skin.

This thrice-damned soulmate of hers has found themself in trouble. Again. Gods know how many scars she’s accumulated because of this bond she never asked for. She doesn’t dare remove her glamour anymore because the marks on her skin run deep; jagged lines criss-crossing and intersecting, red angry burn marks blooming like flowers on her light brown skin. 

And what’s the point, really, in having a soulmate if it’s not guaranteed that you’ll be important to that person unconditionally. What’s the point when at best you’ll spend your whole life feeling the pain of another, and at worst you’ll get to meet them only to be trapped in a relationship that does more harm than good to you?

_ What’s the fucking point? _

It’s not like Yennefer’s mother had a good life with her soulmate. Quite the opposite, in fact; her stepfather was one of the worst fucking scum on the Continent. And the examples of Destiny's unfortunate meddling don’t end here; Stregobor and Tissaia- a true disaster, this one- Triss and that poor farmer girl that died when they were only twenty-five. Or that queen of Aedirn, Yennefer has long forgotten the name of, whos own soulmate and husband sent assassins to kill her when she could not birth a male heir… 

In any case, Yennefer is quite content to have never met her  _ other half,  _ especially since the person she’s bound to seems to have no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.

_ It’s honestly a miracle they’re still alive. And a good thing that no matter how deep the wound, how fatal for the other person, it won't be enough to kill her.  _

The sorceress wishes there was some magic, just  _ something,  _ she could do to sever the soulbond for good, but Tissaia has been trying to be rid of hers for three centuries now and she’s no closer to achieving it than she was when she started. 

Yennefer takes a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside, and continues weaving the flower crowns that are needed for tonight’s ritual, smartly marketed at the unsuspecting folk of Rinde, as a fertility celebration. 

It’s not like she outright lied to the good women of the village - no - she merely omitted a tiny part of the truth. The truth that this  _ celebration  _ is part of an ancient elven ritual meant to strengthen one’s fertility, meant to restore one’s ability to bear children. 

* * *

The full moon is high in the sky, painting the paved square of Rinde with its silver light. A gentle, warm breeze rustles the leaves of the surrounding trees, flutters and fills the women’s skirts as it makes its way to its unknown destination. A tall pile of woods is set alight by the flick of the sorceress’ hand and Rinde’s many residents partake in the pleasures of the flesh, in a dance of bodies, melting with one another in fluid motions. 

It’s perfect and exactly as the ritual describes; each piece of the intricate puzzle in its right position, waiting for the ancient magic to take root, to spread and to deliver. 

Yennefer mutters the incantation, her gaze fixed on the pillar of fire that seems to try to reach the pale moon, drifting among the  _ dancing  _ bodies and placing the woven flower crowns on the women’s hair. 

The gallop of a horse and a plea for help startle participants, who with frantic movements gather their discarded summer clothes and retreat away from the fire and its magic. 

Fuck. Yennefer cranes her neck towards the sound, a chestnut mare with two riders upon her, trots towards the panicked folk of Rinde. The rider, a strong-shouldered, if somewhat dishevelled and heavily scarred, man ushers her to stop and climbs with ease off her saddle, taking in his arms the leaner figure of an unconscious man. 

“Are you the mage?” he asks Yennefer in a deep gravelly baritone voice, that sends shivers down her spine. 

She motions to the villagers that the  _ celebration  _ is over, the position of the moon no longer in the correct place to restart the whole thing from the beginning. She takes a deep breath, calming her nerves, and crosses her arms turning to the stranger, “I am,” she responds, “Quite the timing you had there,” she says drily, tilting her head slightly to the side, and raises a dark brow scanning with her gaze the strong form of the man, meeting his amber eyes, “ _ Witcher. _ ” 

He hums deep and gutturally, his gaze falling to his unconscious silken-clad companion, “Can you heal him?” he asks, a tinge of worry colouring his otherwise flat voice. 

“You care for him,” she remarks, not waiting for an answer, moving closer to inspect the second man; an ugly red bruise, swollen at the size of a small melon lies on his throat, his breathing coming ragged and laboured as blood spills from his shapely mouth. 

“Please,” the witcher urges. 

Yennefer may not care much about the people that populate the Continent, but she’s not heartless - despite the rumours - and not one to turn a blind eye to suffering, not when she’s been at the receiving end of Fate’s whip more often than not. She’ll not turn the witcher away but she won’t help him free of charge either, not when he disrupted her ritual, her chance to get what she wants,  _ what she deserves _ . 

“Fine,” she says, “What happened to him?”

The witcher shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable, “a djinn attacked his throat,” he responds truthfully. 

_ Interesting.  _ The men may be of more use to her than she anticipated. 

A smile forms on her deep red lips, “Since you disrupted our celebration,” she drags the last word and blinks slowly, “and the next time we can repeat it, lucky for you, is during the next full moon this month, you’ll be staying at my estate and helping out with the preparations till then. Come,” she extends a hand, “let’s bring him inside.”

“We can’t-” the witcher starts saying. 

“You can and you will. Or would you rather he died? Twenty-eight days is surely not an unreasonable amount of time; after this, you’ll be free to go, no strings attached. I promise.” 

The witcher hums and nods, and follows her to the mansion she’s liberated from the ungrateful ex-mayor of Rinde. 

* * *

Yennefer finds out soon enough, that the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, and the bard, Jaskier, are a complete disaster of a pair. She can barely fathom that a witcher, a person who supposedly knows everything about monsters, would go fishing for a djinn, maybe the most dangerous of the spirits, to cure his insomnia. 

And Jaskier - Melitele that man - he not only fought the witcher half-inebriated about being the said djinn's vessel, but also spent his two wishes in the vainest fashion imaginable, and apparently worded his second wish so badly that it ended with a tumour on his neck. 

However, both fools prove to be extremely interesting individuals, with stories and experiences that no mortal man could even hope to acquire. Yennefer catches herself conversing with both men, surprised pleasantly when they not only follow the conversation effortlessly but also add pieces of knowledge of their own, oftentimes on matters she's not well versed in. 

She hates to admit it, but she seems to be growing fond of them.

It's a quiet day of research when she learns the bard's big fat secret by mistake, or rather by an unexpected confession.

Yennefer is going through the ancient elven scroll that describes the fertility ritual, making sure she won't forget any vital piece, lest she wants to wait a whole year for the next summer moon. 

She rubs her eyes frustrated when the Elder script doesn't cooperate with her and just dances around the parchment, like a bunch of carefree children. 

"What are you reading there, witch?" Jaskier leans over her shoulder cockily, "Oh, that's a nasty one darling. I hope you don't intend to try it out."

"What do you know of chaos,  _ bard _ ?" She huffs, annoyed. And more importantly what does the peacock of a man know of Elder to be able to read the text effortlessly? Last she heard Oxenfurt barely brushes over the subject, and even at Yennefer's best days translation from the ancestral language of the elves to one the humans use takes an incredible amount of time and concentration.

"It may be hard to believe," Jaskier moves to sit at an empty chair besides Yennefer, "but I'm a lot older than I look."

"I've seen the crow's feet," she snides, even though there's nothing to indicate the passage of time on the bard's face, no thin lines of years of laughing, no shadows under his eyes. Nothing. "Those creams and lotions you use are hardly doing their job, I'm afraid."

Jaskier lets his head fall back as a peal of laughter escapes his lips, "Oh, please, Yennefer. I won't have crow's feet for another century at least," he pauses for a moment and points to a difficult to translate passage on the parchment, "This is wrong," he states with surety, "whoever wrote this excuse of the Eleusian ritual didn't know shit. If you try this there's a good chance you'll drive all of the population, in a fifty miles radius, mad. Bonkers. Coocoo."

"How- why-" she stammers and the bastard bard flashes her a lovely grin.

"Did Geralt forget to mention when you healed me that we're kin, you and I?"

_ Impossible _ . How would he even know of the elven blood that runs in her veins? It's a secret tightly kept, one not even her closest friends are privy to after what that whoreson Istredd did before her ascension, before she got forced to lose a part of herself she's been trying so hard to reclaim for so many years now.

"Oh, calm down, Yennefer. I don't intend to sell your secret out, especially considering a full-blooded elf such as yours truly would get slaughtered like a lamb if anyone in these  _ lovely  _ northern kingdoms finds out," he props his arm on the desk and leans his head on his palm, "Sooooooo, want some help?"

* * *

Begrudgingly at first and eagerly at last, when he proves to be an excellent assistant, Yennefer allows the foppish, and apparently glamoured,  _ elven  _ bard to help her prepare for the ritual. 

He tells her that it's quite the experience if done correctly, though he can't promise her that she'll get whatever she's looking for. What he can promise her though, is that she’ll have the time of her life and quite possibly the best sex she’ll ever have the pleasure of participating in. He wiggles his smug, shapely eyebrows at her and she suppresses the urge to turn him into a frog.

It’s a good thing the absolute fool still has his last wish because if he didn’t and the ritual failed to restore her womb, she’d have no alternative left. With the djinn’s power, she might be able to get what she wants. 

Geralt on the other hand, taciturn as the witcher is, has been following her directions the whole month, from making trips to the nearest woods to bring her some herbs she needs, to cutting and gathering firewood for the big fire, and even once hunting a menace of a gryphon that’s been terrorising the eastern fields of Rinde. 

He seems to think that he’s horribly indebted to her for saving the bard’s (and if she’s not mistaken, his lover’s) life, though if she were to be honest she would have let them go with a bit of monetary payment if the situation was different (and they hadn’t disrupted  _ -fortunately-  _ her  _ wrong-and-quite-dangerous  _ ritual). 

It’s all for the best though, as the men prove to be of invaluable help to her, and as she gets to know them better, day by day, they prove to be friends.

She has Geralt weave flower crowns with her, as the day of the full moon approaches, his big hands proving extremely delicate in handling the fragile stems. Her gaze oftentimes drifts to those deft fingers that weave and plait and create art. 

Yennefer feels her finger being pricked as if by something pointy but she pays it no mind. Geralt hums right next to her, his hands never leaving the flower crown he’s weaving. 

“You bastard!” Jaskier’s voice thunders from the second floor, heavy footsteps following when he descends the wooden staircase. 

“Hm?” Geralt lifts his gaze to meet the furious bard. 

“You bastard!” Jaskier repeats and Yennefer idly wonders what irritated the elf so much. “You,  _ mister _ , got injured,” he holds his middle finger up for all to see, where a tiny wound shines red. 

Geralt snorts a laugh, “I pricked my finger on a thorn, don’t be dramatic, Jaskier.” 

Yennefer snaps her attention to the pair.  _ Could it be…?  _

“Besides,” Geralt continues, “it won’t even scar, and you are hardly eligible to get offended by a tiny scratch, Jask. Not when you’re responsible for most of these, sir-pirate-mercenary-revolutionary,” the witcher gestures at the entirety of his body. “So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?” 

“I smeared blood on my poetry book because of  _ this  _ ,” he’s still holding his middle finger high in display, and Geralt rolls his eyes, a small smile forming on his lips.  _ Dramatics such as this are frequent, then.  _

“You’re soulmates,” Yennefer remarks, not really a question but an observation. The men nod regardless. Of course they are. This revelation leaves a sour taste in her mouth, reminded as she is of her own unwanted bond. “I’ll fix your book, Jaskier, so calm the fuck down,” she offers in an attempt to wrap this matter up quickly and continue with the preparations for the ritual in peace. 

“That’d be lovely, thank you,” he smiles at her, and something tugs inside her chest. 

* * *

The night of the ritual is fast approaching, and Yennefer’s blood boils with anticipation. With the help of the witcher and the bard, everything is ready, all pieces of the intricate puzzle in their right place.

The fire pillar burns tall and high, Rinde’s folk spread around it, bare bodies dancing at the rhythm of a drum. Yennefer burns the mix of herbs, feeling the chaos take root and spread its tendrils from the fire to the people. The air smells heavily of magic and pleasure, of herbs and fire. 

Geralt and Jaskier help her with the last few parts of the ceremony, distributing the crowns to the women and men that participate. The last three flower crowns they wear themselves, and position one on the sorceress’s raven locks before they strip off their clothes and help her undo the lacing on her dress. 

* * *

When it’s all done, the haziness of the magic lifted and the air cleared, Yennefer disentangles herself from the witcher and the bard’s warm embrace, momentarily mourning the loss of friction, of companionship, and casts a quick inspection spell upon her. 

_ Shit, Jaskier was right.  _ The ritual, while an incredible experience, could not give her what she desired. She rubs soothing circles on her temples and sighs, and moves to set her back up plan in motion. 

She flits between the sleeping bodies in graceful movements, with the destination of her laboratory in mind. 

It shouldn’t be too difficult to absorb the djinn and consequently acquire the power needed to get  _ everything  _ she desires and even  _ more.  _ She just needs the bard to utter his last wish as she stands in the middle of the magic circle she’s painted on the stone floor, while incanting the spell of binding. She doesn’t care what this will do to her soulmate -  _ hopefully, this will sever the bond to them  _ \- the pain they’ll feel or the power they may acquire with her. 

When everything is ready and done, she opens a portal to the town square, whisking the, still sleeping, bard away. 

“Yennefer?” the bard croaks, fluttering his pretty, cornflower blue, eyes open. “Wh- What are you doing?” he questions in a half-panicked voice, as his gaze scans the dimly candlelit room. 

“It didn’t work,” she responds, focused on painting an amphora symbol on her lower abdomen. “Make a wish, bard.”

“Have you perhaps lost your marbles?” he shrieks, arms splayed apart and eyes wide with shock and fear. “Djinns aren’t playthings, Yennefer!”

“You’re one to speak,” she rises to her feet and stalks towards him, “Make. A. Wish.”

“In my defence, I was piss-drunk during that time,” he backsteps, his back meeting the cobblestone wall. “Please, be reasonable, Yennefer, I beg you. The djinn will kill you.”

“Make a goddamn wish already!” she yells, her patience running thin.  _ She’s running out of time damn it!  _ “Say  _ something _ , or I’ll continue the ritual without your wish.”

“You are insane, lady!” the bard screams back, “Can you hear yourself? I wish you would listen to me!” he pauses, his eyes wide as plates, his hand placed upon his mouth, “Oh, nonononononono. Fuck, I’m sorry-”

Yennefer smiles and turns her back to him. That was a stupid wish as wishes go, vague enough to be interpreted as granting the ability to her to listen to the shit the bard is spewing, which she - _ regrettably-  _ already has.  __

She calls upon the spirit, and violent winds howl inside the confined space, the drapes dancing in seemingly random directions, and threatening to tear off their hinges. 

Yes! She’s so close, she can feel it. The chaos is powerful, swirling and descending, gathering inside her magic circle. 

She screams as the power enters her, her body feeling like it’s on fire. Jaskier screams too, in panic or fear, she doesn’t care at this point. Everything is too much and too hot and- 

“Fuck!” the deep baritone of Geralt’s voice is barely audible amidst the chaos. He’s muttering something Yennefer can’t decipher, and suddenly the winds disappear, the chaos dissipates, and she’s standing in the circle feeling hollow. 

“Why?” she screams, “I was so close. _ So close…  _ ” Yet, she knows, deep inside, that the spirit would have torn her apart if it wasn’t stopped. 

“You would have killed us all, Yenn,” Geralt says, stalking forward, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. When his amber eyes meet her lilac gaze, a hiss escapes his throat, “Ah,  _ fuck _ .” 

“My glamour is broken,” Jaskier laughs wetly, “Geralt my glamour is gone, what are we going to do now?” 

Yennefer, in a surge of panic, inspects the ring on her hand, with its gemstone that now dons a thousand tiny cracks. 

_ Shit.  _

Her scars are visible for all to see. 

_ Shit. Fuck. Cock. Shit. _

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, and she lifts her gaze to meet his, finding deep jagged lines adorning his body, thin cut marks on his wrists at the same spot as hers, angry red burn marks blooming on his torso that mirror hers and Geralt’s. 

_ Oh.  _

A wet peal of laughter escapes her lips, her heart aching at the sight of three people sharing a bond forged by Destiny, a bond at least one of them never wanted. 

How much cruller can She become? One soulmate wasn’t enough for Her? She had to grant Yennefer two?

Yennefer always imagined that if she met her soulmate she’d loathe them instantly, that she’d have one good look on the bastard that caused her so much suffering, she would turn them into a stone immediately, so that they would stop fucking injuring themself. She didn’t imagine that she’d spent a month with them, that she’d grow to like them and think of them as her friends, as possible partners. She wasn’t prepared for all these conflicting feelings that makes her reconsider her initial stance,  _ reconsider herself.  _

“Leave,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, having lost her strength, “I need time to think,” she adds after consideration. 

The men look at her with sad eyes.  _ She doesn’t want their pity damn it! Can’t they see? _

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” Jaskier speaks up, tears welling in his eyes, and she hates that she wants to cup his cheek, that she wants to tell him that it’s alright. Because it isn’t. “We… I didn’t know… I didn’t think it was possible-”

“Come, let’s go, Jask,” Geralt cuts him off, “It’s not much,” he pauses to gather his thoughts, “but we promise to be more careful from now on.”

In a mess of crumpled clothes, dripping candle-wax, and tears they leave Yennefer to gather up the pieces of herself. 

It takes time to heal, to put her thoughts in order, to determine if her attraction to the witcher and the bard is real or just another of Destiny’s cruel games. Months fly and then a year, and Yennefer’s mind is a bit calmer yet no closer to the answer -the truth- about this whole soulmate charade. 

During this time, she weighs what she knows of soulbonds, she weighs the pros and cons of ending up with your soulmate. The logical part of her mind screams at her to go find the intriguing duo of fools that happen to be bound to her. It screams and reiterates that a soulbond does not fabricate feelings, not when she’s witnessed so many unfortunate bindings, not when Tissaia and Stregobor, Yennefer’s mother and step-father, are a constant reminder that she still has agency over her own heart. 

Yet, the emotional part of her still feels hurt,  _ betrayed _ , that she had to meet her soulmates, she had to  _ like  _ them before finding out that she was bonded to them. She’s spent so many years  _ -decades-  _ resenting the person that Destiny bound her to, her hatred running deep inside her core. 

And then she met them. And she fell for their charm, for their intelligence, for their dry humour and creativity. For the genuine kindness they showed her, and the valuable help they offered her even though she practically forced them to live with her for twenty-eight days. 

Even though she used them to get what she wants (even if that didn’t turn out well in the end). 

She erred and they did too. Sometimes there are no winners in the games of Fate and Destiny. Sometimes it’s only a bunch of broken people that find each other whether they want to or not. And sometimes that’s all there is in life.

Yennefer grabs her spare glamour, and steps through a portal that smells of snow and firewood. 

**Author's Note:**

> A bit on how soulbonds work in this AU:  
> -not everyone is born with a soulmate  
> -soulmates feel the pain of one another and share scars  
> -no wound, however fatal can end the life of your other half. The pain will run deep and for a long time but they won't die.  
> -soulmates have agency of their own feelings. It's more of an unfortunate bond that can turn in the most wonderful thing or the most abhorrently bad. In betweens are very rare. 
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this fic <3


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